


The Love of the Game

by akamarykate



Category: Early Edition
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Father-Daughter Relationship, Football, Football is life the rest is just details, Friendship, Gen, Meet the Family, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamarykate/pseuds/akamarykate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marissa remembers the color brown, because that's the color of the football her father rolled across the floor to her when she could still see, the color of his hands when he shaped hers around it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jayne L., who gave me a prompt or a question in a meme a while back about headcanon, and to Amilyn, who read my response and said, "You should write that!" Took me a while, but here it is.

When people ask if she remembers being able to see, Marissa usually says she doesn't. It's a lesson learned in childhood. She doesn't want to be told--again--that her memories are wrong, that the images in her head couldn't possibly be her sister Cassidy's face when she was five, the illustrations in Goodnight Moon, or Buckingham Fountain. But she knows a few of those memories must be real, because they're things no one ever would have bothered to describe to her, that she couldn't know from her other senses. She remembers the arrangement of the animals on her Noah's ark baby quilt, the long-necked giraffes next to the squat turtles; the lopsided grin her grandmother embroidered on the bear and how it always seemed to be directed at the crocodile, as if they shared a secret. She remembers the flash of the diamond in her mother's engagement ring in church one Sunday morning, and how she thought it was the light of the world the preacher was talking about. And she remembers the color brown, because that's the color of the football her father rolled across the floor to her when she could still see, the color of his hands when he shaped hers around it.

* * * *

She remembers things she didn't see and wasn't supposed to hear. Remembers the day she finally understood that she was different from her sisters, from anyone else in the family, and not in a good way. Her sight had been going away so gradually she'd been able to adapt. She thought learning to use a cane and navigate by sound was part of becoming a big girl, just like learning to walk and skip and dress herself. But one day, she finally understood that it wasn't supposed to go like that, because her father cried.

He thought she was asleep. He knelt by her crib, a crib she was too big for, but they were afraid to move her out of it, as if she were more likely to roll out of bed in her sleep than a sighted child. She begged and begged for a big girl bed, but Daddy told her it just wasn't safe and called her his sweet baby. When she got quiet because she was angry--he hadn't yet learned to beware her silences more than her tantrums--he thought she was asleep. Came in and knelt beside her and cried dry, hoarse sobs and said he was sorry. At first she thought he was sorry for not giving her a big girl bed, but that wasn't it. 

He cried, and she remembers his big hand on her back, and then another hand, a gentler voice--Grandmother's voice. Daddy said he couldn't do it. He barely knew how to bring up the other girls, and now this. How could he help her, how could he keep her safe, how could he raise her right?

Grandmother said, "Joseph Clark, your job is the same for Marissa as it is for any of your children. If she's blind or deaf or pigeon-toed, it's the same. Teach her how to be in the world. Teach her to love it."

Over the years, he did. And because he loved it more than anything else in the world except his girls, he taught her football.

* * * *

"Fingers on the laces," he reminded her every time. She threw the ball over and over until it was muscle memory: the grip, the stance, the release toward his clapping hands, the last brush of leather against her extended index finger. The follow-through to send the ball spiraling while Dad described the arc from a few yards away, then ten, then twenty. At first she learned because she wanted to keep him from ever crying again, then because she wanted to spend time with him that her sisters didn't get. She kept it up, though, because she learned to love the pebbly feel of the ball, the thud of her throws landing in his waiting hands, and the thrill of being able to run because he'd cleared a path for her.

The neighborhood kids joined them at the park for games, even the toughest boys agreeing to protect the five-year-old quarterback in exchange for blocking lessons from a former Bears lineman. Dad taught them to call out positions and stick with their routes so Marissa's handoffs and passes would land true. In those moments she didn't feel so different. Instead of whispering questions to their own parents about her, the other kids played with her. Instead of despairing over her future, her father laughed with her and taught her. Instead of being the blind girl, she was the quarterback, sending throw after throw toward the goal line.

* * * *

He tried to teach her plays and formations with the peg-shaped Fisher Price Little People that populated her playsets. On her eighth birthday, he gave her a huge box that let out a metallic rattle when she shoved it around the table. "Electric football?" Cassidy asked with a snort.

Dad handed Marissa a plastic figure no bigger than her hand. It felt like one of Cassidy's Barbies, but it was smaller and its arms and legs didn't move. "This game has all the players, offense and defense. You line them up on this board--it's the football field, and when you turn it on, they move. We'll put some tape or something on the yard lines so you can feel where they are." 

Marissa put her hands on the metal surface of the game and giggled when it vibrated, tickling her palms. "This way you can get a feel for where everyone is on the field during a play. She's going to learn this game," he insisted when Mom made a funny sound deep in her throat. "She's smart enough to understand."

Ignoring Mom's protests that he was turning her little girl into a tomboy, he set the toy players out in patterns and taught her how the four-three defense was different from the three-four, how safeties put themselves in position to intercept passes, when to line up the offense in an I-formation and when to use the wishbone, and how the line protected the quarterback and blocked for the runners. He got frustrated when the electronic vibrations made the players move differently than they did in real games, and pushed them around himself so she would understand properly. 

That fall, they started listening to Bears games on the radio together. Marissa set up the players on her game board as the announcers called out the lineups. Formation by formation, play by play, she came to understand, with her body, within her sense of space, what was happening on the field when they played together. And even though her big sisters teased her and said she wasn't being ladylike, Dad insisted boys would like her better because she knew football. 

He was right...eventually.

* * * *

She'd been working at Strauss and Associates for about six weeks when the Bears lost an overtime game to the Steelers. On Monday the break room was full of armchair quarterbacks griping about what they would have done differently. Chuck Fishman bumped her elbow reaching past her for coffee and grumbled something that might have been an apology before he stomped off to his cubicle.

"Don't mind him. He's just mad because he was stupid enough to bet on the Bears again. He keeps thinking Kramer's going to throw a clean game." Gary Hobson, who'd been friendly, if somewhat preoccupied and shy around her since she'd started, dangled a paper towel over her hand, just brushing her knuckles with it. "Uh, do you want me to--"

"I got it, thanks." She wiped the coffee off her skirt. "It's not Kramer's fault," she said. She'd had this conversation with her dad the night before. "If the receivers would get their heads out of their rear ends and stay on their routes, he'd throw a lot fewer interceptions. Would have helped if the defense had kept up the blitz on O'Donnell, too. I don't know why they didn't just send the corner against the left tackle all night."

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then he laughed. "Wow, that's, uh--yeah. Couldn't agree more." The guy was so transparent she could practically hear him wondering how a blind woman knew anything about football, and then checking himself before he asked because he didn't want to be rude. "How do you think they'll do against the Packers next week?"

"I don't like their chances," she said. "They've had a good run this season, but there's a lot of sloppy play that could come back to haunt them. And this loss is going to shoot holes in their confidence."

"Yeah, but this is the Packers we're talking about," he said, relaxing into the conversation in a way he never really had when he stopped by her desk to pick up mail. "Big time rivalry. I still think we make the playoffs."

"Wow, you're the last of the cockeyed optimists, aren't you? Must be a Cubs fan, too."

His laugh was easy. "Bet you next Monday's coffee the Bears win. Here you go." He handed her a hot Styrofoam cup that gave off the odor of dark roast tempered with a dollop of cream, just the way she liked it.

She grinned. "You're on."

* * * *

"So this one's the Bud Lite." Gary guided her fingers to the first bar tap. "It's kinda long and, uh--"

"Phallic?" Marissa asked as she poured a little out. 

He pulled his hand away. "Oh, jeez, thanks for that image. What, are you covering Freud in your psych classes this week?"

"Come on, Gary, if we're going to rebrand McGinty's as a sports bar, that's hardly the worst either one of us is going to hear when we're working back here."

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect to hear it from you." He moved her hand to another handle. "Maybe you should stick with the Sam Adams here."

"Oh, yes, much more square, much less suggestive," she said, and couldn't swallow her giggle. Ever since Gary'd declared the end of Chuck's high-concept restaurant and they'd done away with the tablecloths and china, she'd felt as though she could breathe a little easier--and not just because she'd won the argument about a cigar room. McGinty's felt bigger, more open, more relaxed now. More like a home.

"I'm going to invite my dad to the next Bears brunch," she said. "He'll like this."

"Your parents have never been here," Gary said, and though he didn't say the rest out loud, he was most definitely asking why. 

"I didn't know what they'd think of Chuck's concept and his...flare for the dramatic." She rested her hand on the bill of the Goose Island tap. She still wasn't sure what they'd think about Gary and the paper--not that she'd tell them about paper without Gary's okay, but his behavior looked awfully erratic to anyone who didn't know about it. "My mom would be fine with it, but Dad's more--well, he'll like all this a lot better. Especially on a gameday."

"He's the one who taught you about football, right?" A glass mug clinked on the counter under one of the taps; Gary must not have had any stories in the paper to worry about for the next little while if he was pouring one out for himself. "He's a Bears fan?"

"Lifelong." Gary wasn't good at remembering details about her family; she was surprised that stuck. Maybe she shouldn't have been, though, given his reaction when she added, "I mean, he did play for them."

"Your dad played for the Bears?" His voice was reverent, so hushed it was nearly lost in the sound of the beer rushing out of the tap. 

She reached out and touched each tap until she found the one stuck in the "pour" position and flipped it up. "Yeah. I never told you?" That was at least a little wicked of her. She knew she'd never told him, but he'd forgotten so many things she had told him--her sisters' names, for example, or the fact that she _had_ sisters--that she figured she was allowed to tweak him a little. She pulled a towel out from under the bar and handed it to him.

"Your dad played for the _Bears_? The Chicago Bears?"

"Just a couple seasons back in the early Seventies. Left guard. He blew out a knee against the Lions and never really got back to playing strength."

"But--Marissa--your dad, he played--he actually _played_ \--for the Bears?"

She nodded. "A lot more than the--what was it, two plays?--you were on the field for." She still hadn't quite forgiven him for leaving her to deal with the restaurant and going to get Chuck, who wasn't even speaking to him at the time, to help save Joe Damski. "Thanks for showing me the taps. I should go study for my stats test."

"Yeah, okay." But he followed her into the office like a puppy. "You're serious, aren't you? _Your_ dad played for the Bears." The way he kept repeating it, always emphasizing a different word, it was starting to sound like some kind of high school drama class exercise. "And you never told me."

"You never asked."

He rolled out her chair for her. "Yeah, well, why would I think to ask something like that? That's not the kind of thing you just assume about your friend--"

"What, that she knows anything about ordering stemware?" Chuck walked into the office from the kitchen, typically belligerent. At least the edge of real meanness that he'd directed at her for the past few weeks was gone, or tamped down for reasons even her psychology major wasn't helping her decipher. "'Bout time you figured that much out. I mean--"

"Chuck!" Gary cut him off. "You're not going to believe this--can I tell him?"

Marissa shrugged. "It's not a state secret."

Gary drew a deep breath and delivered the pronouncement like it was a sacred trust. "Her _dad_ played for the _Bears_."

* * * *

When her dad came to brunch, he refused a table and parked himself at the end of the bar, like Marissa had known he would. Gary kept his glass full, and even though Dad insisted on being called Joe, Chuck was the only one who'd do it. Gary called him "sir" or "Mr. Clark" and asked him as many questions about his playing days as the boys who used to show up in the park "just to watch" when Dad was putting her through her paces.

"You haven't told them you know how to play, have you?" Dad asked when they headed back to the house for Sunday dinner. 

"Gary's still in shock knowing you were in the NFL. I'm not sure he can handle much more."

"Got that right. So, you and him. Anything I should know?"

She let a little smile twist her lips. "Remember how you always said knowing about football would help me get to know guys?"

"Yeah?" He drew the word out, wary as when she went to her first junior high dance.

"Turns out you were right, it does." She paused for a second, then let him off the hook. "It's just that the guys who like that about me are the kind who turn into the brothers I never had."

She didn't miss the relief in the breath he released, but he asked, "And you're okay with that?"

"As far as Gary goes, yes." She didn't know, yet, how to explain that even though there wasn't any romantic attraction between them--Gary'd been married when they first got to know each other, after all--it was more than a sibling relationship, deeper than the "just friends" everyone else used to describe what they were to each other. 

"What about the scrawny one?"

She let out an indelicate snort. "Chuck? He likes to bet the games, but he can barely tell what's going on once the whistle blows." Which was part of why she'd wanted her dad at the bar for games; Chuck was worse than useless at describing the action on the field, when he'd even deign to speak to her. Gary was almost as good as an old time play-by-play radio guy at telling her what was going on, but more often than not he was gone taking care of the paper. "Chuck's more like...an annoying cousin."

This time, Dad didn't bother to hide his relief. "Thank God for that."

"No, Dad, thank you," she said. "For all Mom worried about you turning me into a tomboy, I don't know if I'd have these friends--" This job, this _life_. "--if you hadn't taught me so much about football."

"It's like keep telling you, sweetheart. Football is life--" He paused, waiting for her to finish. Just like he'd taught her when she was five.

"The rest is just details."

* * * *

Another brunch--though they didn't really call them brunches these days--another nail-biter for the Bears. Dad sat in his usual spot, downing beer and grumbling about the waste of Brian Urlacher's rookie season. Marissa half-listened to the Bears' lead slip away all through the third quarter while she helped out behind the bar because Gary was gone--again. He finally showed up, breathless and smelling of diesel, with thirteen minutes left in the game.

"Hey, Marissa."

"Are you okay? I thought you'd be back an hour ago."

"Yeah, yeah, I just ran into an emergency--oh, hi, Mr. Clark." She heard the soft smack of their hands together as they shook. 

"Emergency?" Dad asked.

"Yeah, my, uh--my Jeep ran out of gas." He didn't say anything about the semi that was supposed to overturn and drop off an overpass onto the Eisenhower; Marissa assumed that meant Gary had found a way to keep it upright.

"Maybe you should take a load off, kid. It's Sunday afternoon. What are you running around for?"

"Oh, it's, you know how it goes. Stuff comes up. Hey, look at that, first down. Marissa, we have a stapler in the office, right? What about a wrench?"

"I have no idea, but Gary--" She hated to add to his to-do list, but they were between managers again, and none of the current waitstaff had any plumbing experience. "There's some kind of problem with one of the toilets in the men's room. If I call anyone out here on a Sunday they'll charge us double."

"I'll look at it when I get back from taking care of--of my Jeep."

"I thought you ran out of fuel," Dad said. 

"I did."

"And you need a stapler because--?"

"It's a long story." He was floundering, so Marissa threw him a lifeline.

"Check the box on the shelf behind the extra paper towels," she said. "I think Chuck used to put tools back there--and anything else he didn't know how to use. Like our tax records."

"Okay, sure, thanks. I'll, uh--oh, man, I gotta get going." 

And he was gone. Luckily, Dad was distracted by a pick six and the ensuing celebration. She thought she'd dodged the inevitable questions about Gary's weirdness until a few minutes later, when Dad said, "You know, Gary reminds me of someone I met back in my days with the Bears."

"Well, he did play in high school and college." As if Dad didn't know that already; as if the two of them hadn't spent most of the rare Sundays when Gary could relax and enjoy a game recreating their favorite plays with salt and pepper shakers. 

"This guy wasn't a player. Only saw him once--oh, there goes Urlacher after Manning again. I'm telling you, that kid's going to be our salvation if he can ever cut in on the pocket."

Between Gary and her dad and the drink orders she was trying to help Sarah fill, Marissa had lost track of the game, but she made a noise of agreement while she poured Bud Lite into a frosted mug. 

"Anyway, I'm jogging to practice, thinking Coach'll bust my butt for being late, and I'm crossing the street when this skinny old guy blindsides me, right out of nowhere. I thought it was some fool messing with me, but just then a delivery truck ran a red light. If that guy hadn't been there--" He let out a whoosh of air. "Took off before I could thank him."

Marissa froze, mug in hand. Flashed back to an early morning, the intersection by the post office, sirens and blaring horns, and Gary grabbing her--blindsiding her. Out of nowhere. "Dad--you might have--" She nearly choked on the rest, but she had to say it. "You might have been killed."

"Or worse, had my playing days cut shorter than they were."

"But--Dad--" she stammered. Sarah cleared her throat and Marissa handed her the mug. "You never told me that before." She picked up a towel to dry her palms and ended up with it wrapped tight around her hand. When the Colts called time out and the game went to commercial, she asked carefully, "Why does Gary remind you of the man who saved your life?"

"It's his hands just now. Ink-stained. So were the old man's. I always figured he must have worked at a newsstand or something."

Or something. Lucius Snow had been a typesetter. She knew he'd saved a lot of lives with the paper, just like Gary, but this was too close to home to be a mere coincidence.

"I wanted to track him down, but it happened in the middle of the season, right before Cassidy was born, so I never got the time." He took a long pull of his beer. "Gary's fingers have smudges like that. And he's always reading the paper, isn't he? Funny how a little thing like that brings back a moment I'd all but forgotten. Got busy with a career and family, when I wouldn't have had either one without that guy."

"Funny," Marissa echoed. Swallowed hard and dropped the towel. "I need to get something from the office."

"Hurry back. I think we're going to win this one."

Gary wasn't in the office. She heard him banging around in the loft, so she went up and knocked on the frame of the open door.

"Sorry, can't really talk right now," he called from her right. It sounded like he was rummaging through a box or a trunk. "But I swear I'll take care of the bathroom when I get back. It's just there's a kid over in Grant Park who's going to get hurt if I don't--shoot, I know there's duct tape up here somewhere."

He strode past her. She reached out and snagged his sleeve, bringing him up short. "Gary, wait."

"I can't wait, I--hey, what happened? Bears choking again? Did they--" He broke off when she pulled him in and hugged him tight. "Shoot, Marissa, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything's great." She eased her hold. "I just needed to say thank-you. But not to you, not exactly."

"Okay, well, that's--good? I mean, you're welcome, but for what?"

She stepped aside, nodding toward the door. "Just go. I'll tell you later."

"I don't want to go, if something's bothering you." He couldn't quite suppress the urgency in his voice, even though he was clearly trying to.

"Nothing's bothering me, not anymore. I just--thank you. Now go. That kid needs you to be in--"

"Grant Park," they finished together. He gave her arm a squeeze and was gone.

* * * *

"Marissa, Grandpa says he needs you to come help him out." Her nephew Jamar tugs her hand away from his baby sister. "We're playing adults versus kids, and the old guys are losing. He says you're his secret weapon."

Marissa gives Tasha one more snuggle, kisses the top of her baby-sweet head, and hands her back to Cassidy. "Okay, let's go."

She wonders, as she follows Jamar outside, if it isn't Gary who needs rescuing, even more than Dad. It's taken years of invitations to get him to her parents' house for a family dinner, and his reluctance has less to do with the paper than it does with his fear of putting a foot wrong around her parents. Because she's glad she finally got him here, she spared him formal introductions to her sisters and female cousins when they arrived, leaving him out on the porch to shoot the bull with Dad and the guys. Because she's still harboring a little annoyance with him after yesterday's go-round about how much help he actually needs with the paper, whether he'll admit it or not, and how much she could help if he'd just give in and _let_ her help, instead of trying to protect her all the damn time, she's left him out there on his own for the better part of an hour. 

Outside, the fall air is dry and gorgeously cool, brushing her face with the promise of boots and sweaters and cinnamon flavored coffee. To her, September always feels so much more like the beginning of a new year than January; it's the relief of summer heat breaking, the start of classes, the feeling that the city is getting back down to business--and the return of football. The Bears have won a pair of preseason games and are poised for a run at the playoffs if they can keep a few key players healthy. 

Her brother-in-law David hands her a flag, and she tucks it into the back pocket of her capris. A few yards away, the kids are laughing and taunting their dads. Leshaun sneers something about a bunch of old men needing a woman to round out their team until his sister Tansy reminds him that she and Emma are both girls, and have captured more flags than all the boys combined so far. Gary must not be paying attention to the kids, because he makes the same mistake when Dad pulls her into the huddle with her two brothers-in-law and three cousins, asking, " _You're_ the secret weapon?"

Damon, Mike, and Dustin laugh. She hasn't played with her cousins since they were all teenagers, but they learned the hard way not to underestimate her. Dad moves his hand to her shoulder, asking with his touch if she wants to set Gary up for the same lesson. She nods, just barely. She really, really does. "Just be glad she's on our side," Dustin tells Gary. 

Dad lines her up at center for the first set of downs. They're set up in the shotgun, and they're letting Gary play quarterback. He probably thinks it's because he played in high school, but Marissa's fairly sure it has more to do with the fact that he's the only one of them with a throwing arm. Or at least, that's what Dad's letting him think. But everyone knows it's her dad who's in charge; he calls out the plays in the huddle like he's done for as long as Marissa can remember.

It's just as much fun as it was when she was a kid: the firm, textured ball in her hands when they line up, the affectionate insults traded across the line of scrimmage, and above all, starting out shoulder to shoulder with her dad, so close she can feel his arms tense up when Gary calls out the signals. When Gary claps, she snaps the ball straight back to him, and everyone moves at the same time. She and Tansy get tangled up and take each others' flags, but between her and Dad and Mike, they give Gary enough time to make a short pass to Damon. 

It's Gary's hand that clasps hers and pulls her up when the play ends. "This might actually work," he says, slapping her awkwardly on the back. "Looks like it's second and short."

They run a toss sweep to make the first down; she snags Jamar's flag and keeps him from getting to Gary. But the next handful of plays, all runs, don't go as well, and they're faced with fourth and long. Dad huddles them all up again and says, "All right, we've set them up; they're going to expect a pass here. Time to show them what we're made of. Marissa, you ready?"

She doesn't even bother to hide her grin. "Which play?"

"Black forty-one flash reverse."

Her cousins softly rumble with approval and laughter, remembering the time the Clark cousins took down the neighbors with that play. Gary echoes, "Black forty-one flash reverse?" just like she knew he would.

"Yeah, it's when the quarterback--" she starts.

"I know what it is. I'm just surprised you do."

Next to her, Dad tenses, but she can hold her own with Gary. "If you haven't realized by now that I--"

"Know football, yeah, I get that, but I didn't know you could _play_ , not like--" 

"You don't want to finish that."

Dad clears his throat, a warning to both of them. 

"Okay, well, who am I throwing to?" Gary asks.

"I thought you said you knew the play, son," Dad says. "You're not throwing, you're receiving."

"Yeah, but who else has the arm?"

Dad nudges Marissa's elbow. "Hook is set, now we just reel them in." He doesn't just mean the kids, and Marissa wonders if Gary's figured out that this joke is as much on him as it is on them. "You line up at quarterback and hand off to Damon here," he tells Gary. "Head down the right side and we'll make sure the ball finds you."

"Clap twice when you're in position," Marissa says. "Twice, quick. And be ready."

"You gotta be kidding me," Gary mutters, but there's a hint of admiration--and _fun_ , how long has it been since they've had this much fun?-- in his voice. "Okay, yeah, two claps."

They line up in the same formation. She hikes the ball back to Gary and knows he's made the handoff to Damon when she hears Damon say, "On your left!" 

Someone's hand, one of the kids, lands on her arm, but Mike says, "Gotcha," and the hand is gone. Her flag's still in her pocket. She takes two steps, arms out to her left, and Damon drops the ball in her outstretched hands.

"Reverse!" Tansy shouts to the other kids.

"Got your back, kiddo," Dad calls out as more footsteps approach. She trusts him to take care of it, takes a step back, hears Gary's claps half the backyard away as she plants her feet and draws her arm back. Muscle memory takes over; the ball leaves her fingertips right before Tansy steals her flag--too late. 

The ball thuds into hands--Gary's hands. She knows because Dad shouts, "Go, kid, run!" 

Half a second later, Damon yells, "Touchdown!" 

Dad picks her up by the waist and twirls her around like he used to. "My girl still has the touch!" He sets her down; she reaches out a hand to steady herself just as Gary jogs up, breathing heavy, and drapes his arm around her shoulder. "Whatddyou say, son? Nice run you made there."

"Yeah, for an old man like us, you're not so bad," Dustin adds. 

"No fair. Nobody told me Marissa could throw," Jamal complains, and she laughs.

"Nobody told me, either," Gary says in an undertone. 

She shoots him a smirk. "You never asked, did you?"

Because Gary's still holding on, she feels as much as hears it when Dad slaps his back. "Welcome to the family," he tells Gary. "I just hope you can play defense, too."

 

After the game, after grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and four kinds of vegetables, they're all hanging out on the back deck when Gary pulls her aside. "Hey, I have to take off. There's a domestic violence thing going down a few neighborhoods over."

No wonder he'd agreed to come. Still, he came, and he actually talked to her family--mostly her dad and the kids, but it was progress. "Are you coming back, or should I get a ride home?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you'd come with me. This is a couple with four little kids, and I'm thinking I need to get them and the mom to a shelter or something so this doesn't keep happening, and you--well, I could use a little help, is what I'm saying."

"Is this because you found out I can throw a football?"

"No, it's--it's because you were right, yesterday, when you said I should stop complaining and ask for help when I need it." Before she gets over the shock of Gary admitting she was right, he adds, "But yeah, you can throw a football--you can _really_ throw a football." He says it in the same tone he used when he found out Dad played for the Bears.

"I can do a lot of things you don't know about," she tells him.

"I'm figuring that out."

When they make their good-byes, Gary invites everyone--sisters, cousins, and kids--to McGinty's for the Bears' season opener. He shakes Dad's hand and says, "Thanks for the game, sir."

"Yeah, Dad." Marissa kisses her father on the cheek. "Thanks for the game."

**Author's Note:**

> [Black forty-one flash reverse is a real play](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJtZYKIzzZE), though it probably would have been called something else when Marissa and her dad first drew it up with her cousins. But Frank Solich dubbed it that in 2001, and as a self-respecting Husker fan, I couldn't call it anything else.


End file.
